


the unlocking and the lift away

by bewitchings



Category: Hunger Games (2012), Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, BDSM, Biting, F/M, Impact Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:28:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewitchings/pseuds/bewitchings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm so hot, I ignite, dancing in the dark and I shine / like a light, I'm luring you / sneak up on you really quiet, whisper am I what your heart desires?</p>
            </blockquote>





	the unlocking and the lift away

**Author's Note:**

> written for the safewords s/m ficathon @ lj

She crawls into his bed silently, she won't beg like she did the first time, (now she only begs when he's fucking her).   
  
He sighs when he sees her, lips cherry red from biting, shiny from saliva.   
  
  
He has his hands in her hair, tugging her braid loose, his knuckles brush against her cheek as her hair falls to her shoulders. It’s oddly tender and she takes his fingers into her mouth, biting down because  _she doesn’t want tender_. He pulls them out and she sees that his knuckles are worn thin, tiny cuts like barbed wire littering the flesh in between each mound.  
  
  
He crushes their lips together till Katniss tastes blood and whiskey on her tongue.   
  
He's not kind, not kind at all and she likes that. He drags her head down to the crotch of his jeans, presses her face into the musky denim, lets him slip himself in between her lips. He’s still clutching onto clumps of her hair, nails digging into her scalp and she loves that he's not kind.   
  
  
  
He fucks her in his kitchen, drunk, always drunk. Her green filthy hunting trousers are bunched up at her bruised ankles as he moves on top of her, bare legs painted with bites and scratches from the woods (and from him).  
  
He slaps her, again and again till she's begging him to stop, not to stop,  _stop_. Every time her head hits the cracked tiles, she thinks only of the grotesque shape of his lips, a red snarl. A victor's grin.  
  
  
The dry skin of his palm numbs her; it takes her to a place where none of this exists.   
  
He tears up her flimsy blouse, biting her nipples until he draws blood, his snarl even redder.   
  
  
She calls out Peeta's name and tries not to flinch when Haymitch punches her until her smile is red too. She's laughing and trying not splutter but his hands are wrapped around her throat.   
She lavishes the pain, drowns in it until she can't see the surface.   
  
He lets go of her neck, dragging his split knuckles down to her collarbones as he comes on her stomach, (a trick she knows he must have learnt from the cathouse).  
  
  
She wipes the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand, not allowing her smile to slip, she loves watching him frown.   
  
With him she doesn't need to fight back, she has no will to survive, and with his mouth slipping in between her legs, she doesn't need to.  
  
  
An escape, it's something Peeta can't give her, poor stupid Peeta who thinks her bumps and bruises are from hunting. Every time he touches her, she thinks of her future, of him dying, of children, of wasting away.  
  
So she closes her eyes and thinks of his grotesque smile against her thighs, the bitter taste of alcohol old and new on her tongue.   
  
  
She hates him and she hates herself; she's ruined rotten and no one can cut out the black rot in her chest.   
  
At least she knows Haymitch is handy with a knife. 


End file.
